The Past Is All Behind Me
by A. Kingsleigh
Summary: Twists of fate lead to a different path, one no less difficult to tread. A life ends for the last survivors of the doomed Franklin Expedition, and a new era dawns. An alternate conclusion replacing episodes 9 and 10. Includes extra oneshots.
1. The Past Is All Behind Me

Commander Fitzjames supposed he could not be called a commander any longer. Not when everyone else had turned and fled, and there was nothing left to command but your own two feet and the trigger of your gun. No matter, he thought as he pressed himself closer to the jagged rock and checked his rifle yet again. If this was to be his fight alone, so be it.

Something hadn't been right inside him since the day of the creature's rampage through Terror Camp. Grief for the loss of so many men, yes, but that was hardly all. There was something else, something deeper within, which gnawed at his brain and sapped what little strength he had left. At first he had thought, not without a good deal of dread, that his old war wound was opening up again. Mr. Bridgens had examined him before the group set out, however, and had pronounced him as well as any man in his current circumstances could be.

It was an affliction of the mind, then. More guilt? Francis was quick to assure him he had done all he could. Fear for the safety of Dr. Goodsir, perhaps: his stomach churned at the thought of such a man forced to serve a brute like Cornelius Hickey. But there was something still deeper, a more terrible thought. _The worst is yet to come, isn't it?_

It did not come when poor Mr. Peglar nearly dropped dead in the middle of pulling the boat. It did not come when Mr. Blanky bid them farewell and marched off into the nothingness, determined to meet the creature with naught but a rotting leg and a pile of forks (although Francis would surely disagree with James in that regard). Supplies low and tensions high, and still it would not come. By night he would lie awake, and by day he would cling to Francis's side whenever he could. It was something to do with Francis, he was sure of it now.

Francis, on the other hand, did not seem to share his concerns or have any interest in being protected. "I want you to stay here, James," he said when one of the boys came back from scouting with news of a shortcut, declaring the captain ought to investigate. "Lieutenant Little can come with me instead. You need to rest a while."

"But, Francis…"

"We will return before long."

James had believed him, because of the exhaustion and because he had wanted to. But then Lieutenant Little had come staggering back into camp alone, shouting about Hickey and how the captain was in terrible danger, and the simmering dread had boiled over at last.

"We have the means to ambush them," he said to the men he had assembled, thinking aloud as he paced the length of the tent. "They have what, nine men? We can spare more than twice that number. They'll be outnumbered and outgunned. We'll steal down on them under cover of night, blast Hickey's brains out, and…"

He paused. Only Lieutenant Little seemed to be paying attention. The others were looking down or at each other, refusing to lift their heads. "What is it?"

"We...prefer the captain's order, sir," one of them said.

He didn't understand at first. Then he remembered what Little had told him, the command straight from Francis himself. Keep the men on the planned course, and leave the captain to whatever fate awaited him.

"Say that again," he hissed, coming to a standstill. "Look me in the eyes and say it."

"We took a vote," the man continued.

"When? Who said you could?"

"An hour ago. While you were tending to Lieutenant Little."

James clenched his fists. "You would leave _our captain_ alone with that...that _beast_ of a man!"

"Captain Crozier wouldn't have given the order if he didn't think it best."

The way he kept his head down and his voice calm was too much for James to endure. He stormed out of the tent they were all gathered in, kicking up rocks as he circled the camp. It felt like hours before the core of his rage was spent. The stubbornness, however, had not burned away.

"Which way have they gone?" he asked upon meeting the group that was filing out of the tent.

"East, I think," said Lieutenant Little. "You're not thinking of doing anything rash, are you?"

"Take up the captain's order, Lieutenant. Do what you must. I shall do the same." He went back into his tent and soon emerged with a small pack and his gun.

"Sir," said the lieutenant, trying to block his path, "think of what Crozier would do! Wouldn't Crozier want you to look after the men?"

"Then today," said James, "it is good fortune that I am not Captain Crozier."

He slung his rifle over his shoulder and began to march east, not once stopping to look back.

* * *

The night was dark, and yet Hickey stared unblinking at the horizon like he could see for miles. Raising his head, he sniffed the cold air and grimaced. Fine leather boots and insufferable arrogance: only one man with that clear a scent. The others were right, he was being tracked. But not only by the Tuunbaq.

Hickey turned on his heel and headed back toward his meager camp. There was work to be done. "Everyone awake!" he shouted. "Prepare to move camp!"

* * *

It had to be done tonight, before the others rose and discovered him. Before the captain could try to talk him out of it. There would be time for weakness later, when he reached the other side. Assuming there was another side, which Dr. Goodsir had not done in many months.

Slowly, mechanically, he opened his medicine chest and removed three bottles. Two for the skin, and one to drink. All three combined would give Hickey and his men reason to regret making a meal of him. He blinked, and a hazy image flashed against the darkness: himself, dead and naked, stretched out on a table as the other men tore at his flesh. He caught his breath, and tears welled in his eyes as he opened them.

 _No, Harry. Not now._ He thought of William Gibson, and the bags of bloody chunks he had dragged to that very same table. It was merely poetic justice, then. _This is not your destruction. There is nothing left to destroy. This is your penance._

He tried not to blink again.

His hands were what betrayed him when Hickey's voice rang out. Steady as he held them, their trembling would not fully cease. When the order echoed through camp like a gunshot, they stiffened and lost their grip on the bottle of poison. It shattered on the ground, the contents lost as they spilled out.

There would be no second chance to strike if they found him now. His mind suddenly racing, Goodsir shoved the other bottles into a corner and shut the medicine chest, then hurried to the refuge of his cot. He realized, with a hint of disgust, that the trembling in his hands had stopped.

 _Coward. You should have been quicker._

* * *

James could see the ragged band approaching him from his spot on the hill. The men had barely enough strength to carry themselves, let alone haul the boat. He outpaced them with little effort, and now it was just a matter of waiting for them to come to him.

He peered through his spyglass. Yes, there was Francis, more bedraggled than before but alive nonetheless. The man walking beside him tripped and stumbled - good Lord, was that Dr. Goodsir? He looked like he had been in the wilderness a hundred years. Francis hoisted him back to his feet and held his weight, gently urging him along. The men around them paid no heed. And then there was Hickey, riding in the boat like he fancied himself crossing the goddamn Delaware.

"Just an easy target," James muttered to himself. Once he went down, the others would fall in line. If they still had their wits about them.

He curled back against the rock and watched the sky grow brighter as he waited.

* * *

Truth be told, there was little which Francis could say he still cared about. Not himself, not the hunt for that damned creature and certainly not whether Mr. Hickey was actually Mr. Hickey. "You should have just joined up," he said. He would have put every ounce of bile he could into the words, were he not so exhausted.

"If we do not meet the creature soon," Hickey continued, paying no heed to him, "we set up a signal fire on this hill. "Now, he may not have his senses, he may need help finding us!"

"If it's ill," said Mr. Hoar, "we should put every shot we have in its head and butcher it. Now, while it's weak."

Francis was somewhat aware of Dr. Goodsir having collapsed on to the rocks to his left. He turned his head to look at him. The poor man was barely moving, and yet he was casting a look of faint disgust in Hoar's direction. It was the most emotion Francis had seen on the poor man's face in days.

"I have a different plan," said Hickey.

Whatever color Goodsir had left in his face drained from it at these words. "No," he choked out, struggling to push himself up. "No, you can't do this…"

"I've learnt what I needed. Bugger London, I'm going forward! Only forward! Call it with me now, boys! Come on, together!" Raising his voice, he began to sing. _"God bless our native land, may heaven's protecting hand…"_

A gunshot rang out, dangerously close to the group and not from any of their own guns. Everyone ducked, and the mutineers nearly scattered in fright. Hickey was shut up at last, thrown off-course by the sudden noise. But where had it come from?

Francis raised his head as a tall, armed figure emerged from behind the rocks. "My God, James…"

Fitzjames aimed his rifle at Hickey's chest. "Set Captain Crozier and Dr. Goodsir free from their chains, Mr. Hickey," he said calmly. "Along with anyone else who wishes to depart with us."

Hickey grinned. "I was wondering when you'd show up, Commander."

"I shall not tell you again."

The men trained their own weapons on him, but not with confidence. "What, you think you'll kill me?" he shouted, glaring at each one of them. "You would follow this man over Francis and I? This man who would have you act as beasts no better than the one which torments us?"

"It's here!" Magnus Manson screamed. "I can see it!"

They all looked to the horizon, where a white shape was bounding over the rocks.

"Hickey," said James, "what have you done?"

* * *

"Are we gonna kill it or not?"

"Let it come, Mr. Des Voeux," said Hickey, the small smile returning to his face. "Open yourself to courage."

"It will go after those who are running first," said Francis. He stared at James, and then motioned with his head to the ring of keys hanging from Thomas Armitage's waist. James gave him a slow nod.

The men were forming a staggered line now, guns pointed at the ridge with trembling hands.

"Don't you understand?" Goodsir shouted, scrambling to his feet. "You can't control it! It won't listen to you, it won't listen to any of us! Only to her people!"

"It has not yet found a man like me," said Hickey. "But it will."

"It's before me!"

"Hold, Private!"

 _"Pull the chains!"_ Francis shouted above the roar of the Tuunbaq as it came charging into view.

 _So, this is how it ends_ , thought Goodsir.

He remained where he stood as the world descended into chaos around him. Tuunbaq took Des Voeux first, snatching the poor man up in its jaws. James rushed forward to take a shot and pierced its shaggy hide: it staggered back, but then swung its paw and knocked him aside. He went flying through the air, landed on the rocks and lay still. Blood dribbled from a gash on his forehead. Diggle was next, only managing to run a few feet before the creature was upon him. Then Hodgson, Manson, Tozer. Each one lost in a flash of red and the shrill screams of the beast. He thought he felt the cuff on his wrist fall away, followed by the captain's voice telling him to _grab something to fight with, for God's sake!_ But then that was lost to the confusion as well.

Then he heard James's voice again. "Francis! _No!"_

His vision cleared, and he saw what was happening before him. Francis still lay shackled at one end of the chain, and Tuunbaq had already consumed the other: now it was dragging the captain towards its gaping maw. Fitzjames was too far away to reach them in time. Hickey was watching from the boat, his eyes ablaze with delight. No one left to help. No one except…

Goodsir rushed forward, stepping between Francis and the monster with his hands raised. _"Wait!"_

Tuunbaq paused, and the whole world seemed to pause with it. It dropped back to all fours as it fixed its eyes on him.

"Wait," he repeated, suddenly finding himself unable to speak above a whisper. Could it even understand his words? _"Nuqqarit."_

The creature took a step towards him, breathing in his scent.

"Don't shoot, Fitzjames," said Goodsir, hearing the commander scrambling around behind him. "Just free the captain."

James nodded and began to search around for the keys, while Francis pulled himself towards him inch by inch.

Goodsir, meanwhile, sank to his knees and bowed his head. He could feel the creature's eyes still on him, boring holes through his body. "Tuunbaq," he said, unsure of how to begin. The words in its own language for what he wanted to say were far beyond his knowledge. He would have to hope it grasped his meaning. "We have wronged you, Tuunbaq. Many times we have wronged you."

James managed to unlock Francis's cuff, then had to hold him back as he tried to rush toward Goodsir.

"Many years ago, I believed we came to your land as explorers," Goodsir continued. Tuunbaq began to circle around him, as though deciding which part of him to eat first. He closed his eyes and kept them shut. "But now I have seen the truth. We came to your land as invaders. As destroyers. We killed your master, and we murdered your people. We hunted you when you sought the vengeance you are owed. For this, we cannot be forgiven."

It blew a gust of hot breath against his face. He winced, but he did not look. "But I beg you to spare my captain and his friend. They did not understand. They only wanted to protect their men." Taking a ragged breath, he opened his eyes. "If you must take one more of us, then take me. I am not afraid to die."

Tuunbaq stood in front of him again, looking him up and down. He held his head and waited. For what, he was not sure. For the sensation of being bitten in half, most likely.

Instead he felt the air knocked from his lungs as the creature used one paw to knock him flat on his back. It loomed over him, the open mouth inches from his face. He screamed, only to be choked into silence as _something_ forced itself down his throat. Something long, with muscles and teeth. He writhed in vain under the weight of Tuunbaq's paw. Pinpoints of light flashed before his eyes as what little he could see of the world spun out of focus.

The jaws found his tongue. They cradled it like a precious jewel. Then they bit down, and everything went dark.

* * *

"Don't look!" said Francis, throwing himself to the ground and pulling James down with him the moment Goodsir was attacked. He was prepared for the sound of the scream. He was not prepared for the muffled choking, nor the sickening squish of teeth chewing on muscle. The tears came running from his closed eyes as he pressed his hands over his ears.

It seemed to end just as quickly as it began. From the corner of his eye, he saw Tuunbaq rise up, done with whatever flesh it had partaken in. On the ground beneath it, Goodsir lay stretched out, unconscious, blood pouring from his mouth onto the rocks.

"Like Lady Silence at Carnivale," James whispered.

"No!" It was Mr. Hickey, still alive, now sounding more like a petulant child than a threat. "I am the one you must accept! Not him! _Me!"_

Taking his tongue in his hand, he brought his knife to his mouth. Francis and James looked away as the sawing motions began. When they looked up again, Hickey's severed tongue sat in the palm of his outstretched hand. He offered it to Tuunbaq, beaming, waiting.

Tuunbaq took it, along with most of Hickey's arm. The man could barely react before the creature was swinging him around, ripping him apart at the waist and spilling his guts on to the ground. With the upper half of the body in its mouth, it chewed and swallowed.

It was coming toward James and Francis when something went wrong. At first it paused, grunting in pain. Then it began to convulse as though it was choking. It collapsed on to its side, writhing and trying to vomit up what it had eaten of Hickey. For a moment, it stretched a paw toward the body of Goodsir, as though begging for help. But then its eyes glazed over as its movements slowed. With one final, raspy breath, it lay still.

Somehow it was no surprise, Francis thought, that Mr. Hickey was the one too putrid to be eaten.

The haze of adrenaline slowly lifted, and in its place was absence. Not silence: silence was a peaceful stillness, a chorus of soft noises that lulled one into relaxation. This was the absence of any noise whatsoever.

What it was did not matter to Francis: he welcomed it all the same.

"Francis," James said, his voice weak. He was lying on the ground with his eyes closed and a hand on the gash in his head. "I think I need a bandage…"

"Stay with me, James." Francis clawed at the sleeve of his own shirt until he had torn off a sizeable length. He pressed it to James's head, soaking up the blood, then wrapped it around the wound. "You'll do well."

"You think so?"

"That's an _order_ , Commander."

"Francis, you should…" James paused. "You should see to what's left of the boys."

They lay scattered across the rocks, staining the pale ground red with their blood and gore. Some had chunks missing, and some were torn to shreds. Their eyes bulged from their sockets, and their mouths remained open in silent screams.

Francis forced himself not to look at them. Instead he dragged himself to his feet and started toward Goodsir. Goodsir could be taken care of first. He who was still in one piece, who had been so brave in his last moments, who was - who was _still moving._

"Harry!" Francis said, rushing to the young man's side. "Harry, are you still with us?"

He was breathing, yes, but with every breath came a gurgling sound. Taking Goodsir's head in his hands, Francis tipped it to one side. Even more blood came pouring out from his mouth, and Goodsir's eyes fluttered open a moment later.

The noise which he let out was one Francis would not soon forget. It could be called a scream, or at least an attempt at one. But it seemed forced, twisted, lacking the definition it might have had before. It was not the sound of a man in full possession of his voice.

It frightened Goodsir as well. His hands flew up to cover his mouth as soon as he heard himself. Then, with shaking fingers, he began to poke about inside his mouth. Whatever he found in there frightened him even more, because his eyes grew wide, and a whimpering escaped his lips as his search grew more frantic.

 _His tongue_ , Francis realized. _My God, it's ripped out his tongue_.

The wounds on Lady Silence and her father, those were clean cuts. Self-inflicted. But this...Goodsir hadn't asked for this.

"Oh, Harry," Francis whispered as he helped Goodsir sit up and pulled him close to his chest. He kept him there for what seemed like ages, feeling his frail body heave with ragged sobs.

The poor man had planned to take his own life before. He would certainly try again now if he wasn't stopped. "Dr. Goodsir," he said, pulling away to look into his friend's eyes, "this is perhaps the most important thing I'll ever say to you."

His eyes were dull and still wet with tears, but he raised his head and gestured to his ear. _I'm listening._

"If that beast wanted you dead," said Francis, "it would have killed you just as it did Mr. Hickey. Just as it did everyone else. You and me and James, we're the only ones left now. I don't know if God wants us to live. I don't know if God is here. But _something_ wants us to live. It wants _you_ to live. I believe that, Doctor, I truly do."

Goodsir ran his hands through his hair and shook his head.

"If you're determined to die, you'll not die here!" said Francis. "I'll carry you back to Scotland myself. If help won't come to us, we'll go in search of it." Then, because he had nothing else left to use, he said, "What would Lady Silence think if she found you dead of grief?"

His eyes flickered at the sound of her name.

"There we go," Francis said with a smile. "Sit with me awhile, Doctor. We'll decide on our next course when the dawn comes."

Goodsir leaned against Francis's shoulder and closed his eyes. In a few minutes, he was slumped over and his breathing had evened out. Sound asleep.

Only then did Francis let his weak smile fade. _Two injured men, and no way of getting them back to safety._

Bowing his head, he prayed to whatever power might hold sway on this damned island to send help, and send it soon.

* * *

When Goodsir awoke, it was to the sound of a long-lost voice calling his name. _It can't be,_ he thought at first. She was gone, and he must be either dead or dreaming. The aching in his joints and the gaping emptiness in his mouth, however, told him otherwise. And yet he could hear her clear as day, as though she stood right in front of him.

Francis's head lolled over in the absence of the friendly shoulder it had been resting on, and the sensation snapped him awake. He looked up to see Goodsir staring off into the distance, the way they had come that morning, looking like he had seen a ghost. "What is it?"

Goodsir tapped his ear a number of times and gestured out to the horizon.

"I don't hear anything. Perhaps it's...where are you going?"

Goodsir was staggering off across the rocks now. After a few seconds, he abruptly let out a warbled cry and broke into a run.

James, still holding a rag to his head, came up beside Francis. "What does he see?"

Fetching the spyglass Hickey had dropped, Francis held it to his eye. It focused on a dark shape in the distance, one moving slowly toward them. One he recognized.

Tired as he was, he found himself able to grin. "It's her."

Lady Silence was coming up the hill, dragging a small sled behind her. She dropped it when she recognized Goodsir running and quickened her own pace to meet him halfway. He stumbled and fell as he met her, and she caught him in her arms. When she had helped him to his feet again, he wrapped his arms around her like he had waited all his life to see her again.

"Is that proper?" said James.

"Hardly the time or place to care for propriety," said Francis.

The two seemed to converse in some fashion: he pointed to Tuunbaq's body and motioned clawing at his throat, while she checked his mouth and rested a hand on his cheek. When he tapped his ear again, she nodded and repeated the motion. This appeared to brighten his demeanor somewhat, and he led her up the hill toward Francis and James.

Silence, however, was more concerned with Tuunbaq. Kneeling at its side, she blew on its snout and poured water from a small canteen into its mouth.

"It died hours ago," said Francis. "Sick from what it ate. It...it was our fault."

She considered this a few seconds. When she nodded, there was sorrow in her eyes.

"Would you help us?" Francis continued. "Goodsir and Fitzjames, they're hurt."

Silence nodded and gestured the way she had come.

"Is that where your people are?"

She nodded.

"Wait a moment," said James. "We need to find the rest of the men. Lieutenant Little said…"

Goodsir stepped forward, placed a hand on his shoulder and shook his head.

"What do you mean, no? They're your crew as well!"

He drew a finger across his throat.

"They can't be dead already, I only left them a day ago!"

He made the pantomime again, more insistently this time.

"Can you make anything of that, Francis?"

"I think," Francis said slowly, "he means that they _will_ die. Before we can reach them."

Goodsir nodded, his face solemn.

"He can't possibly know that for certain," said James. "What makes you think so, Doctor?"

Goodsir seemed to be at a loss for words, or what now passed for them. Finally he settled on tapping his forehead, then holding a hand to his eye as though looking through a spyglass.

"You saw them...in your head. You can't be serious."

"In a dream," said Francis. "You dreamed of what will happen to them."

"But that's nonsense!" James sputtered.

"Back in England, perhaps." He looked to Lady Silence. "Do you believe him?"

She nodded with purpose.

Francis said nothing for a number of long, painful seconds. "If they live," he said at last, "they might yet reach a friendly outpost. And they have a better chance of doing so with three less mouths to feed. You must have thought of it, too, James."

James looked down at his boots and gave a half-hearted nod.

"And if Dr. Goodsir is right," said Francis, "then we must look after ourselves."

"Where must we go, then?"

Francis pointed to Lady Silence. "Where she sees fit to lead us."

* * *

A day of walking brought them to a small village. Only a few burning fires, a handful of hide tents, and a dozen or so people who gave the travelers sullen looks as they passed. The men still thought it the most cheerful place they had seen in months. Before long, their wounds were freshly patched, and they were seated inside the largest tent, in front of a crackling fire and across from a man who looked to be the leader of the settlement.

"It would be good if you can understand what I say," he said to them, in his own tongue.

Francis nodded. "I can."

"I understand from Silna that you are but three men now."

James looked up. "Silna?"

Goodsir nodded toward Lady Silence, who sat beside their host.

"You never told us that."

He offered them a shy smile, and for a moment, he looked once again like the young assistant surgeon who had set sail with them from Greenhithe an age ago. Back when the world had made sense.

"Our men," said Francis, going back to the matter at hand. "They died."

"All but you?"

He nodded.

"Where do you want to go?"

Francis knew what he would say, and what his companions would say. _Home._ But home was no more than a fairy country now, a distant memory.

"In spring you can decide," the Netsilik man said to them. "In winter, you stay with us."

Francis and Goodsir looked up in surprise. "After what we did to Tuunbaq?" the former asked.

"We cried many hours after we heard from the shaman."

Goodsir blinked back fresh tears and looked down at his hands to hide them.

"How was it?" asked the Netsilik man, looking to him. "When the Tuunbaq died?"

"He did not see," Francis started to say, but the man held up a hand to silence him.

Goodsir bit his lip and glanced around as though looking for a means to escape. Finally his gaze settled on Silna, who shook her head ever so slightly. Looking back to the man, he passed a hand over his eyes.

"What does he mean?" asked Francis.

"He says," the man replied, "it was like sleep."

 _That,_ Francis thought, _is perhaps the first convincing lie that Dr. Goodsir has told in his life._

* * *

"Was any of that good for us?" James asked Francis. The three men had been ushered back outside, and now they were pacing the outskirts of the village.

"As good as we can hope for," said Francis. "He says we may spend the winter here and decide where to go in the spring."

James gave him a lopsided smile. "You and Dr. Goodsir may live until then, but not me. I can hardly string a pair of their words together."

"Then it's a good thing I have all winter to teach you."

Goodsir suddenly stopped in his tracks, his eyes drawn to the center of the village. Silna was there, a sled piled with fresh supplies behind her. She exchanged a few words with the man from before, and then, dragging her possessions along, she began to walk off toward the east. The man made no effort to stop her.

Francis and James stayed a few feet behind as Goodsir hurried up to him and gestured after her. _Where is she going?_

"She lost Tuunbaq," the man said. "Alone is the way for her now."

Goodsir nearly staggered backward. Then he furrowed his brows, shook his head and pointed to himself. Francis knew the look on his face all too well: _My fault,_ he would be saying if he could.

Francis stepped up. "Why is is she leaving?"

"She cannot be with us now."

Goodsir kept frantically shaking his head. _Why not!?_

"That's the way. Everyone accepts this."

Goodsir did not wait for a further explanation: turning on his heel, he ran off after the rapidly shrinking figure.

 _Silna!_ he called out in his mind, hoping that she would hear him just as he had heard her. _Silna, wait!_

She stopped, turned and held up a hand as though to halt his progress. The firm look which accompanied it made him skid to a stop.

 _You must stay here_ , she sent to him. She spoke without moving her mouth, and yet her words were as clear as they had always been. _This path is not yours._

 _Nor is it yours,_ he sent back. _This isn't fair. You didn't lose Tuunbaq. You couldn't have stopped it from poisoning itself._

 _That is why I must leave_ , she answered.

 _Then let me go with you. You have lost so much already. You don't deserve to spend your life alone._

She shook her head. _That is not the way._

Turning, she began to walk once more. But Goodsir still followed. Memories of the last time they had parted ways like this flitted through his brain: he hadn't done what he had needed to do then.

 _You must go back now,_ she said, glaring at him as she stopped again.

 _I cannot go back. Alone is the way for me now, too._

 _I don't understand._

 _You lost Tuunbaq,_ he said. _You swore to protect something, and you could not. I was the same once. I swore to protect the men under my care, and instead I failed them. I did things to them that cannot be forgiven._

Her expression softened, if only a bit. _And so you must leave your own people._ _That is your way._

 _Yes. And if you and I are now alone, then let us be alone together._

Silna looked him up and down. Finally she said, _You would follow me?_

 _I would follow you wherever you wish to go, if you would let me have that honor._

She stepped close to him and gently pressed his forehead against hers. _Your heart is pure, Harry Goodsir._

 _And so is yours._

They drew apart, but she held out her hand to him. He took it, clasped it tightly, and together they walked on.

James watched them leave for a moment. Then, swinging his gun back over his shoulder, he began to follow them. "Well?" he said to Francis. "Aren't you coming?"

"And where do you think you're going?" Francis shouted after him.

"They'll need someone looking after them, don't they? Might as well be us!" He was off again before Francis could answer.

For a moment, Francis hovered. He looked to the village, then to the disappearing figures, then back again. Finally he turned to the Netsilik man. "Someday," he said slowly, "there may be men who come looking for us. White men. And if they come, this is what you must tell them." He took a breath. "Tell them the ships have been lost. There is no passage. Tell them we are gone...dead and gone."

With one last look at the way he had come, he turned and walked away.

"How gracious of you to join us, brother," James said when Francis caught up to the rest of the group.

"Is it gracious to condemn us to walk the earth like ghosts?"

James shrugged. "Could be worse."

"And you! Why are you so damn cheerful all of a sudden?"

"Because I feel as though we have passed through a great storm, Francis," he said. "We are not as we were when we entered it, but we are alive."

"Not all of us. Not even most of us."

James put an arm around him. "You did what you could. Three is better than none at all."

"Is it?"

James stopped and turned Francis to look at him. " _Yes_ , it is."

"...The other men. Where do you think they are now?"

"I don't know," James said quietly. "But they will be remembered."

"Not only by us, I hope."

They began walking once more. "I wonder," said James, "do you think we'll happen across someone else out here?"

"With luck. I'll go mad if your voice is the only one I hear for the rest of my life."

They glared at each other, and then dissolved into a fit of broken laughter. "I suppose that will be rather dreadful," said James.

"We'll see it through."

They hurried along to catch up with Goodsir and Silna. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, they were gone.


	2. Toy Soldiers

At first, Francis tried teaching himself how to carve. He had watched Silna at her work enough times in all the weeks that the four of them had been traveling together. Besides, winter was setting in, and soon there would be little else for him to do. It was preferable to yet another round of James's war stories.

So, tucked safely inside the large igloo that he, James, Silna and Goodsir had constructed, he took out the rocks he had gathered and begun whittling.

Now he was wondering how on earth she managed to do it so often and with such ease. It was slow, dull work that never seemed to get anywhere: the stone was too obstinate to yield to his knife most times, and when it was not, he would get ahead of himself and end up ruining what little work he had accomplished.

Francis swore under his breath as his blade slipped again, carving a gash across the surface of the stone. Tossing it to his side, he picked up another and began again. If he was to be honest with himself, he had half a mind to throw the whole pile out into the snow and forget the damn business.

Silna looked up from her own carving and saw his growing stack of failed attempts. Setting aside her work, she picked up the stone he had just been chipping at, examined it and then held it back out to him.

"No, not that one," he said. "I'll start over."

She mimed carving at it, then held out her hand for his own knife.

"I can manage well by myself. Can't I, James?"

James, who was stretched out on the ground watching him, laughed and said, _"Ikajuk._ Help him. He gets quite confused."

Silna and Goodsir smiled at this. Francis, meanwhile, sighed and put down the stone he had just selected. "Very well. Show me."

For many nights after that, they would sit side by side, and she would guide him through the steps. Silna would make him etch an outline into the stone first, and then cut away until the picture was free. Slow strokes, always slow. Patience. Once he had a rough shape in his hands, she would help him smooth out the edges and make it look more presentable. At first, they were merely sad, lopsided shapes which resembled no recognizable object. With more time and practice, he could craft a reasonable facsimile of a boat, or a seal, or a vague human figure.

When the others had declared his attempts in that last endeavor to be adequate, Francis was satisfied. Now, he thought, he could do the work he had set out to do.

* * *

One day, toward the end of winter, James woke to the sound of metal scraping against rock. He opened his eyes and saw Francis sitting cross-legged in the same spot he had been when the rest of the group had gone to sleep. Sitting in front of him were a number of rocks placed out in a neat line. He had another one in his hand, which he was carving into a bell-like shape.

"Have you been up all this time?" James asked as he sat up.

"I tried not to disturb you."

"What are you doing with those?"

Francis gestured for him to come closer. When he did, he saw that the rocks had been carved to look like men: not very detailed, but enough for the intent to be clear. Each one had a set of initials etched into its surface. James caught his breath as he recognized several of them.

By now, Goodsir and Silna were awake. They gave quizzical looks to Francis and his collection, then approached him when he beckoned.

Once he had his friends' attention, Francis picked up the first stone figure. This one was more slender and pale than the others, with the letters _TJ_ across its chest.

"Jopson," he said slowly. "Thomas Jopson."

James bowed his head. Goodsir's eyes widened, and his gaze drifted down toward the rest of the figures. Silna reached out to touch Francis's shoulder.

The next rock had broken in one corner, and so the figure was missing a leg. "Blanky," Francis said. "Thomas Blanky."

"God rest his soul," James whispered.

The third rock was the largest of the bunch, and Francis seemed almost hesitant to say its name at first. Finally he said, "Franklin. Sir John Franklin."

Goodsir twisted his face in slight disapproval, but after a moment, he chose to look solemn and nod anyway.

The fourth stone was the thinnest of all, with cracks already formed in its edges. "Gibson," Francis said of it. "William Gibson."

Tears sprang to Goodsir's eyes at the name he had not heard in so many months. With a trembling hand, he reached out and ran his fingers across the stone. Francis pressed it into his hand and closed his fingers around it when he tried to give it back. Goodsir slowly brought it to his own chest and held it there.

They all went down the line, and each name was said aloud. John Bridgens. Henry Peglar. Henry Collins. Stephan Stanley. John Hartnell. Solomon Tozer. Graham Gore. Edward Little. George Hodgson. John Irving. On and on and on. Francis had made one for each name he could remember.

"And," he said, pointing to the last figure in the line, "those whose names have escaped us."

Silna pointed to the figure he had been carving when he had summoned them. _Who is this?_ Her face seemed to ask.

Francis set it down. It was wider on the bottom than the others had been, as though it wore a long skirt. "Cracroft," he said. "Sophia Cracroft."

Silna furrowed her brows and eventually shook her head.

"A woman," Francis said. "Like you. Good, kind. A dear friend."

She placed the figure on its side. _Dead?_

"No," he answered, picking it up. "Not dead. But I will never see her again. I first knew that long ago. I did not accept it then." He was quiet for a moment. "But I have now."

When the seasons changed, and the time came for the travelers to move on, Francis gave the stone figures a burial. Each one in its own small plot, the most honor he could give them in such a desolate resting place. Silna added several figures of her own to the makeshift graveyard: one which must have been her father, judging by the level of care given to it, several for the Netsilik slain by Hickey, and a larger rock which could only have been Tuunbaq. It was given its due space along with the others.

Francis lingered behind when the others began to move on. Sophia Cracroft, or all he had left of her, sat in the palm of his hand. _What would she want me to do with you_ , he thought in passing. Forget about her, no doubt.

He began to set the figure down on the rocks, but he could not will his fingers to let go of it. Instead, he slipped it into one of his gloves. There it sat, growing warm between his skin and the layer of thick fur, as he followed his companions.

But it was the thought of his men finally resting in peace that brought a smile to his face.


	3. Metamorphosis

Harry Goodsir could feel himself changing. Not all at once, but gradually, like a caterpillar in a chrysalis or a snake shedding its skin.

He felt certain that no one back home would recognize him if he stood before them as he was now. Truth be told, he wasn't sure that even he would know his own reflection. The years up north had turned him gaunt and pale. His hair had grown long and stringy: try as he did to keep it under control with the help of his knife, it would not be fully tamed. He had not even attempted to address the matter of his beard. That he could at least justify with the small amount of warmth it offered. His spectacles had been lost somewhere amidst the final walk with Hickey's men. His frail English garb had been cast aside piece by piece, replaced with the warm furs that Silna had showed him how to assemble - that was one way of putting his surgeon's skills to good use once again. Sitting in front of the fire with his hood concealing his face, he supposed he blended in to the landscape rather well.

But he thought little of the changes on the outside. It was the changes inside that frightened and fascinated him.

In his mind, Tuunbaq still lived. By day, it followed in his footsteps and loomed over him like a storm cloud. He dreamed of meeting it on a frozen plain, of screaming, _"What have you done to me? Why did you do it?"_ And each time, it would not answer.

Something must have driven it to claim him as it had, to take such a precious part of him and leave behind these...what were they? Blessings? Curses?

No, not curses. Not entirely. The ties which bound him to Silna were no curse. As for the loss of his voice and the strange visions which plagued his rest, he could not say the same.

 _You do not think quietly,_ Silna sent to him.

Goodsir felt his cheeks flush as he was drawn out of his thoughts. _I'm sorry,_ he sent back, trying to clear his mind.

Silna observed him with narrowed eyes from the other side of the hole she had cut into the ice. She had roused him early that morning and practically dragged him off with her, saying it was time he learned how to hunt seal. He suspected that was not her only reason, but had decided not to offer any remark on the subject. She would bring it up before long. But she had not: by now, in fact, it was clear that she expected him to be the one to explain himself.

He had grown accustomed to confiding in her during the first winter. Attempting to make himself understood to Crozier and Fitzjames had been a frustrating chore, and he felt certain only she would understand the things he wanted to say. So, once they had settled down for the season, he had begun asking her the questions which had burned in his head since that fateful morning. Questions about her people, about Tuunbaq, whether there were tales from the past of these strange occurrences, what she had felt when giving up her own tongue.

Silna answered him with remembrances: a small village that moved with the seasons, following the game. They chased the caribou in summer, and they sat in wait for fish and seal in the winter. In return, he gave her stories of wandering through Edinburgh and walking along the river that cut through Anstruther. The mood inside their igloo grew warmer even as the winter grew harsher, and before long, things began to feel as they had in the precious time shared on _Erebus._

The lessons in Inuktitut and English began once more. One started to meld with the other, forming a pidgin tongue that was ever-changing and a secret known only to the two of them. Harry noted, first with alarm and later with amusement, the many times when he could recall a word in Silna's language but not his own.

On late nights, when the captains went to sleep and left them with a small amount of privacy, she would tell him stories about her father. _Angakkuq,_ the men like him were called. The keepers of balance and healers of the sick. He had never said much even before offering up his tongue: perhaps that was why Tuunbaq had accepted him. But he had been a good man, well versed in the _maligait_ and _piqujait_ and careful to see that she learned them. Most of his ways had been mysterious to her - she had never understood why he felt no fear of Tuunbaq, nor why he had ventured so far into its domain on the night he died - but she had loved him all the same. She blinked back tears as a shadow passed over her face.

Those were the moments when Goodsir's heart swelled with the bright, pounding emotion that he could not name, and when it ached until it broke over what had been done to her.

Had her father not been killed, she would not have been forced to take up his mantle before she was ready. Had Tuunbaq not encountered Hickey, it might still be alive, and Silna's people would not have cast her away. He might have saved them both had he poisoned Hickey when he had the chance.

But he would not have found her again had he taken that chance.

It was a dark and selfish thought, he immediately decided, as was his lingering grief for the dead monster. Grief for that which had slain so many of his fellows? It made no sense. None of this made any sense.

Each new thought weighed him further down and forced his mind into silence.

Now here they were, out on the ice at winter's end, and she had made it clear in her own simple way that she would allow that silence no longer.

 _I'm afraid I don't know what to say,_ he began, hesitant.

 _You are frightened of yourself,_ she answered.

Goodsir looked up, taken aback. _I never said that._

 _You think of little else. You fear that Tuunbaq made you into something not human. You think so little of yourself and what you are that you wish to die._ Her gaze never moved up from the icy water below, which was starting to seem warmer than her demeanor. _Am I wrong,_ _Harry Goodsir?_

 _No._ He studied her face. The anger was something he had expected to see, but the pain came as a surprise. _I do not think of you as something to be frightened of,_ he sent. _I never could. I only meant myself._

 _And what makes you so different from me?_

 _What happened was...I didn't know what would happen. And it wasn't meant to happen to me._

Silna didn't answer at first. But eventually she said, _My father once told me Tuunbaq chose as many shamans as it wished. He said it knew who to accept because it could see all that was yet to come, just as you and I can._

 _That didn't help it much in the end,_ said Goodsir.

 _Maybe it knew something we cannot yet see._ Silna looked up. _Why do you want to die?_

When she had said it to Crozier so long ago, her voice had been seething and full of disdain. Now it was soft, concerned, almost afraid. He felt the blood rush to his cheeks again, this time in shame.

 _The night before Tuunbaq died,_ he said, _I'd planned to poison the man who killed him._

 _With what?_

 _With myself. He was eating his own men. I thought that if I could poison my own flesh and trick him into eating it once I was dead, I could kill him and save the good men who still lived._

Silna recoiled and shuddered. _You would waste your life to kill one man?_

 _I didn't see it as wasting my life. I thought that...my life was no longer worth enough for anything else. I'd been made to cut up a man's body for food. I told myself it was the least I could do to make things right._

She reached across the ice and turned his face upward to meet hers. _I am grateful you did not,_ she said.

 _But, but then Tuunbaq might have lived, and you might still be with your people, and…_

 _And we would both be alone,_ she finished.

Goodsir felt himself smile for what must have been the first time in weeks. And then it came again, that swelling warmth in his heart which lacked a name - but only until that name flew into focus like a large rock aimed precisely at his head. He might have tumbled over as though truly struck had he not put down a hand to balance himself.

In his mind, he heard Silna laugh. _We should be on our way,_ she said as she stood up and helped him do the same. _Aglooka and his friend will expect us._

To an outsider, she might have looked no different. But her eyes were shining, and a shy smile played on her lips. He had given her some of what he felt, and she understood it because she felt the same.

 _What is your word for it, Silna?_ he asked as they walked back toward camp.

 ** _Nalligik,_** she said, taking his hand in hers. _And yours, Harry?_

 _Love._

* * *

Neither of the captains said anything to them when they returned. Fitzjames failed to notice anything out of the ordinary, but Crozier looked at them and seemed to realize the occurrence of something momentous.

That night, when they were the only two souls left awake, they lay down beside each other as they had for that single night in Terror Camp. She wrapped an arm around him, pulled him closer to her as he closed his eyes, and pressed her lips to his cheek. For the first time in countless nights, Goodsir's dreams were peaceful.

When the seasons changed, Silna went about gathering extra skins and wood. For another tent, she communicated to the men.

"Why two?" Fitzjames asked once he grasped her meaning.

She put a hand on Goodsir's shoulder and gestured to herself. _Ours._

Fitzjames' eyes nearly popped out of his head, and Crozier had to stifle a chuckle at the sight. "Very well," the latter said. "Do as you wish."

They assembled their new home together. To anyone else, it must have looked like any other Netsilik dwelling. To Goodsir, the sight of it and the promises it held filled him with the same thoughts stirred up by his first view of the Arctic horizon: fear of the unknown, but wonder even stronger.

He paused at the entrance, about to follow Silna inside. _This is it,_ he thought. All this time, he had felt himself changing: if he did this now, the change would be complete. The butterfly would emerge from the chrysalis, and the snake's new skin would shine in the sun.

So he smiled and stepped through, leaving all that he had been outside in the frozen air.


	4. Posterity Awaits

Silna waited until the captains had left the new winter camp for a day of hunting, then started to prepare her plan. For much of that morning, she confined herself to her igloo: she had picked out the perfect stone the day before, and now it needed to be made into just the right shape. The hours passed her by as she carved and whittled until she was satisfied. It was a simple imitation, but one which he would no doubt recognize.

She called out to him. _Harry, I have something to show you._

 _Just a moment,_ he answered from somewhere outside. After a few seconds, she heard the crunch of his footsteps approach their igloo, then he pushed aside the furs covering the entrance and ducked inside. _Yes?_ He didn't suspect a thing.

Suppressing a mischievous grin, Silna motioned for him to sit beside her. _There is a word you must learn._

 _Which one?_

She placed the stone carving into his hands. **_Nutagak,_** she told him, as slow and firm as she could. _You say it now._

Goodsir looked at the stone she had given him. It appeared to be a human form, he thought, but not the slim and evenly proportioned figures she had made in the past. The body was stout, with a large, round head that dwarfed the torso and limbs. Silna had given it a pair of eyes, closed as if in sleep.

 ** _Nutagak,_** he repeated. It must mean an infant.

 _What would your people's word be?_

 _A baby, I should think._ He handed the figure back to her. _It's very nice._

But Silna would not take it from him. Instead, she closed his fingers around it, then let her hand rest on top of his. _This one is ours._

 _It's only a…_

Goodsir trailed off as the meaning of her words began to sink in, and Silna let her hidden smile spread across her face. _Do you understand now?_

For once in his life, he had no words to say. He began to tremble as he pulled her to his chest and buried his face in her shoulder. _Are you certain?_

She nodded.

There were an infinite number of things he could have said, wanted to say. He might have cursed himself for being so unbearably dense as not to realize it sooner, admired her cleverness and everything else about her, or listened to the small voice that was questioning the wisdom of bringing a child into their small existence.

He chose to silence all his thoughts and kiss Silna instead.

* * *

James slowed his walk, then stopped altogether as he approached the camp. "Something's happened."

"You cannot just say that and not elaborate on it, James!" said Francis, who was following behind with a seal carcass atop a sled.

"Then it would seem Dr. Goodsir is in distress."

Sure enough, Goodsir was hurrying out to meet the other men as they returned. He was clutching a small object that seemed to command much of his attention, and his lips moved as though he were babbling with excitement to himself.

James had never seen the man in such a state even in his better days. "Something gone wrong?" he asked.

Goodsir quickly shook his head and handed him the small stone he had been carrying.

James examined it, then showed it to Francis, who shrugged. "Is this a specimen of yours?"

Another shake of the head.

"Then I'm afraid we don't follow."

Goodsir hesitated a moment. Then he pointed back toward the igloo he shared with Silna and held up three fingers.

"We don't need another ice house, Harry."

He scowled and took back the stone figure. First he pointed to himself, then at the igloo, where Silna had just emerged. Then he held up the figure again. _Me, Silna, and this._

Francis' bemused smile faded. "Silna's expecting."

Goodsir nodded, beaming.

James caught his breath. "Oh. Well, then…" He grinned back. "Then this is hardly a time to be solemn, my dear Francis!"

They all ate well that evening, for they declared it to be a special occasion, and James heaped congratulations upon his friends. Francis, meanwhile, looked pleased but said little: after the meal, he bid Goodsir and Silna an early goodnight and wandered from camp a small distance.

"They probably think you disapprove," James muttered when he caught up to him.

"I don't. I just...I can hardly believe it."

"What, that he's been with her?" James scoffed. "We hardly saw them for a day after they first put up their tent. I can only imagine what Dr. Stanley would have to say right about now…"

"I meant I can hardly believe that something alive can come from all we've endured." Francis looked up at the stars. "Something innocent. Could something innocent even survive out here, James?"

"I want to believe it can," James said quietly. "We were not meant to live with our eyes only on the coming day. Consumed by something no greater than ourselves."

"So it's hope you want," said Francis.

"I don't see what's wrong with that. Call it another lode from which to mine our courage."

"It will need courage as well."

"It won't be alone. It will have a strong mother, of course. Not to mention a damned resilient father."

"And an uncle who will finally have someone that hasn't heard his war stories a dozen times over."

James rolled his eyes and gave Francis a halfhearted shove. "Can't forget its humorless old grandfather, too."

"Who says I'm old?"

James laughed, but then let it trail off. "And the most important thing."

"Which is?"

"That it will learn from our mistakes. Because we must help it live when so many others could not."

"I…" Francis found his voice cracking. "I hope for that as well." His mind wandered to the stone Sophia resting amongst his belongings, to what might have been so long ago. But that was all in the past, and it was time for him to look to the future once more. Perhaps this land was giving them all a second chance.

"Do you really think it would like my war stories?"

"Oh, hush."


End file.
